TFLN or Gays in Bars
by Taylor Hayes
Summary: It's Kurt's 21st birthday, & everyone but Brittana has forgotten. So they drag him to a club. And girls keep hitting on him. Prompt from TextsFromLastNight-906:You were screaming across the bar "BUYING US SHOTS ISN'T GOING TO MAKE US STRAIGHT, YA KNOW!" Part 2 of the Barfly 'verse.


_Prompt from TextsFromLastNight:_ (906): You were screaming across the bar "BUYING US SHOTS ISN'T GOING TO MAKE US STRAIGHT, YA KNOW!"

**TFLN or Gays in Bars**

Kurt really didn't even want to be here. It wasn't his type of bar, and since Brittany was the one who chose his outfit, he felt more butch than Santana during her brief foray into a buzz cut.

He still didn't look straight though. He knew he gave off a gay vibe, apparently one of the strongest on record according to most of his New York friends. Which begged the question, why the hell did that group of girls keep sending him Vodka shots and giggling every time he looked over? At a guess, he would wager none of them was out of high school yet. Gaga, fake i.d.s were a pain.

This whole night was a pain, really. He had no idea why he'd let Brittany and Santana dress him like a 1950's greaser, drag him to a disco-inspired club, and then ignore him while they made out under the shocked and turned on gazes of most of the surrounding males.

Oh wait. Right. Because it was his freaking 21st birthday, and Blaine and Mercedes were in Nashville for a recording session that would last another week, and Rachel had a performance tonight, and Finn was visiting Puck in California, and his dad and Carol were finally able to go on a 5-year-late honeymoon to the Bahamas, and NO ONE HAD REMEMBERED HIS BIRTHDAY EXCEPT TWO LESBIANS, ONE OF WHOM SPENT ALL HER TIME MOCKING HIM.

He threw back another shot and grimaced. If the oblivious little high schoolers couldn't tell he was gayer than a rainbow, who was he to disenchant them of the idea they could buy their way into his pants with free alcohol? Either way, he was tired of being here.

Which was when another woman caught his eye from 10 feet away on the dance floor. He sighed and avoided looking her direction again, hoping she would get the hint.

"Vodka shots, huh? How 'bout I buy the next round?"

Apparently not.

Turning, he leveled a tired, worn-out version of his usually fierce "bitch, please?" expression at her. The one that had been known to cause competition for musical theatre parts to run crying in the opposite direction.

She just laughed. "Well, someone broke your heart. Whoever she was, I bet I can make you forget all about her," she spoke, lowering her voice into what any other male would probably consider a seductive tone, her fingers brushing his side.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Trust me, sweetheart, you're not my type."

Ignoring his words, she continued to lean in closer to him as the drinks came. He ignored the one she'd paid for in exchange for the ones sent by the teenagers who hadn't tried approaching or feeling him up yet. And-

"Okay, seriously?" he demanded, jumping off his seat as he grabbed the hand she had been sliding up his thigh. "Enough! I'm not interested!"

The woman just snorted confidently, twitching the long red hair out of her face. He could tell it didn't have that curl or body naturally, probably not even the color, and considered calling her on it. Or mocking her admittedly hideous choice of outfit for the night. Navy hotpants, a golden sequined bra, knee-high black stockings, an ugly black pair of knock-off Pradas, and what looked like a cut off, velour, neon green bathrobe over it all to make it less street trollop and more "daring and unique". For the love of Givenchy, _who_ thought that outfit would make anyone look good?

Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet. When she started to follow him, he rushed straight to his girls. Brittany was the first to see him coming, greeting him with an ecstatic smile and a drunken kiss. Santana, on the other hand, was watching over his shoulder, before meeting his eyes and scoffing. "Running from girls again, Elton John?"

He wished he could shoot daggers with his eyes because Santana would already be dead and no longer able to mock him. Luckily, she seemed to remember this was a Pity Party, and in the end, stepped around him aiming straight for the slut he'd tried to leave behind. Brittany begged him to dance with her, and he did without thinking anything more than "thank Marc Jacobs that devil is my friend" as he heard a commotion and shrieking behind him.

A few minutes later, Santana sauntered over and inserted herself between him and Britt, smiling widely. "I think I can make sure they quit, Hummel. But I think me and Britters'll have to flash the DJ."

"Really? 'Cause he's hot, San," the blonde giggled, staring over at the man in question. "Are we having a threesome? Are maybe a foursome with Kurtie. Do you think he's a half-dolphin like me?"

They were both used to Brittany, but a few of the sober and less drunk dancers around them had their eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement at her words.

"What did you have in mind, Queen Bitch?"

Her satisfied grin was more than a little traumatizing. "I just need to borrow your iPod. And then I'll set it up and we'll get up on the bar and have a little impromptu performance. That's your style, right?"

He wanted to protest, but he couldn't deny that he liked attention for the right reasons. His talent was one of those reasons.

It wasn't five minutes later that he and the girls were sitting on bar stools, and he heard the familiar song begin to play. Compared to all the other music the club's patrons had spent the night dancing to, this was older and the beat was more frenetic than sexy or disco. Still, it fit. And it would certainly get the message across.

Without another word, all three used their stools to climb onto the shiny bar. When the bartender started to protest, Santana tossed her a $50 and a wink, and the gal rolled her eyes, going back to filling drinks.

"_This is where I'll be, so heavenly. So come and dance with me, Michael._

"_So sexy, I'm sexy. So come and dance with me, Michael._

"_I'm all that you see - you wanna see. So come and dance with me, Michael._

"_So close now. So close now. So come and dance with me- So come and dance with me- So come and dance with me-_

"_Michael, you're the boy with all the leather hips. Sticky hair, sticky hips, stubble on my sticky lips. Michael, you're the only one I'd ever want- Only one I'd ever want- Only one I'd ever want. Beautiful boys on a beautiful dance floor. Michael, you're dancing like a beautiful dance-whore. Michael waiting on a silver platter, now- And nothing matters now._"

It was cliché, Kurt couldn't deny it. But as he danced across the bar, belting the song and watching the faces of some of the clubbers turn stunned, confused, proud, uncomfortable, or even angry, he really couldn't bring himself to mind.

The song wasn't his favorite, but in the Gay Textbook (which he had finally given up and written after one too many comments of Finn's and one too many Margaritas, and it had ended up a bestseller in New York, California, and most of Europe), it clearly stated that "Michael" by Franz Ferdinand was a necessary song for every gay or bisexual male to own. (This rule was right between to "How to Best Recognize Complimentary Colors" and "How to Fine-Tune a Failing Gaydar".)It was on his iPod, Santana needed a song that would make his sexual orientation immensely clear, and this was the best choice under the circumstances.

"_This is what I am, I am a man. So come and dance with me, Michael. So strong now, it's strong now- So come and dance with me, Michael._

"_I'm all that you see- You wanna see. So come and dance with me, Michael._

"_So close now. It's close now. So come and dance with me- So come and dance with me- So come and dance with me-_

"_Michael, you're the boy with all the leather hips. Sticky hair, sticky hips, stubble on my sticky lips. Michael, you're the only one I'd ever want- Only one I'd ever want- Only one I'd ever want. Beautiful boys on a beautiful dance floor. Michael, you're dancing like a beautiful dance-whore. Michael waiting on a silver platter, now- And nothing matters now._"

They were moving with the kind of synchronization that came from spending years working under the exacting tutelage of the notorious Sue Sylvester, and most of those watching assumed the trio had choreographed and even practiced the dancing prior to their little show. (They hadn't. They were just a lot more alike when they'd had too much to drink.)

"_Michael, you're the only one I'd ever want- Only one I'd ever want- Only one I'd ever want. Michael, you're the only one I'd ever want- Only one I'd ever want- Only one I'd ever want._

_Beautiful boys on a beautiful dance floor. Michael, you're dancing like a beautiful dance-whore. Michael waiting on a silver platter, now, nothing matters now. Nothing matters now. Nothing matters now, yeah._"

As the music stuttered to a halt, all three performers screamed loudly and drunkenly out at the crowd, "BUYING US SHOTS ISN'T GOING TO MAKE US STRAIGHT!"

…

They wouldn't find out until the following day, late in the evening while still nursing their hangovers, that someone had apparently recorded the whole thing on their phone before posting it online. This was followed by teasing emails and texts from their friends.

On the other hand, when Blaine finally got home, he wrapped his arms around Kurt and began singing in his ear, "_You're the boy with all the leather hips. Sticky hair, sticky hips, stubble on my sticky lips. You're the only one I'd ever want…_" And Kurt figured maybe Youtube and Vodka shots weren't quite as evil as he'd recently decided.


End file.
